


Learning to Fall: The Diary of Benton R. Fraser

by lightspire



Category: due South
Genre: Character Study, Diary/Journal, F/M, Falling In Love, Feelings Realization, Friends to Lovers, M/M, POV Benton Fraser, POV First Person, Pining, Romance, Slow Burn, Suppressed Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-10 21:22:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15957809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightspire/pseuds/lightspire
Summary: The most baffling unsolved case in Benton Fraser’s life is himself; or rather, The Case of the Missing Love Life. He hopes that starting a journal will help him solve it."The truth will set you free, but first it will also make you miserable." Journal entries interspersed with storyline.





	Learning to Fall: The Diary of Benton R. Fraser

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the diaries of Anaïs Nin

——————------------------------------------------————— 

**Journal, Flyleaf**

_Property of: Benton R. Fraser, RCMP_

_If you are reading this journal and your name is not Benton R. Fraser, RCMP, I urge you to consider the morality of what you are doing, and stop._

_And if you are me, think twice before proceeding. _

_For while_ _the truth will set you free, first it will also make you miserable._

————————————————————————————————————

**Journal, Entry 1**

 

_I began this journal to document case notes like my father did, but it turns out that the most baffling mystery in my caseload is me — or rather, my inability to create and sustain satisfying romantic relationships._

_Affairs of the heart are not my strong suit, as anyone who knows me will tell you (with overmuch glee, I might add)._

_I hope that by keeping a careful record of the facts I might glean some useful truths._

 _Here goes nothing._  

————————————————————————————————————

**Journal, Entry 2**

  _R.E.: Dreams and Paradigm Shifts_

_There are two toothbrushes in Ray Kowalski’s apartment now, hanging side by side from a chrome-plated rack under the bathroom mirror. Mine is red, and his is green, the same colour as the Lucky Strike shamrock poster that hangs on his wall. How it happened, neither of us quite remembers. One day there was one, the next there were two._

      _For practical reasons I keep three wooden hangers in his closet. I have a drawer, as well: the top drawer of the roll-top desk, which Ray cleaned out for me. It holds spare clothes, a shaving kit and hairbrush, a few of Dief’s accoutrements, and an extra union suit. This way, I can change after work, put on plain-clothes for a case, or sleep at his place if needs dictate._

_I tell myself that this makes sense, because I frequently find myself asleep on Ray’s couch or the floor after a late night, a long day, or a stakeout. I tell myself it’s easier that way, and safer, too, and that Ray doesn’t seem to mind._

_These are all rationalizations, of course. The truth runs deeper. I keep my things there because there is nowhere else in Chicago that I’d rather be. I wonder if he knows._

_Last night I again found myself at Ray’s. We had spent a long and difficult day working on a missing-persons case, after which we staggered back to his place, hungry and exhausted. We both changed into more comfortable clothes and set about foraging for something to eat. Ray wore a light blue plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up — one of mine. He borrowed it when we gave him asylum at the Consulate and he has never returned it. It’s a little large on him but it looks good and he seems happy wearing it, so I let him keep it._

_After a simple meal of leftover pasta and canned soup, he suggested we watch a heavyweight bout on television with the sound turned off. Ray lay sprawled on the sofa, drowsily watching the end of the fight. I was too tired to care about much of anything, and fell asleep on the rug on the floor next to him, a throw pillow under my head._

_I dreamed of him._

_It was the thirty-seventh time I’ve dreamed of Ray. The dreams are a recent phenomenon, which only began after our near-death experience on the Henry Allen. They began innocuously enough, featuring casework and the sort of strange conversations one typically has in dreams. But in the last few weeks, each new dream has been more intimate than the last._

_They’ve given me a lot to think about. In my dreams, at least, I have feelings for Ray that I never expected. They’ve crept up on me like slow-growing lichen, bit by bit, wearing away at the stone of my heart._

_This has caused a major paradigm shift in my self-concept. I’ve had to rebuild the rooms in my psyche to make space for this new idea. It’s all still under construction because I’m not sure if this is just a curiosity, a phase brought on by my intense isolation, or what._

_I keep these shameful thoughts to myself, of course. Ray needn’t know of any of this; it wouldn’t be good for our friendship or our partnership, and I won’t do anything to jeopardize them._

      _In my most recent dream, we were in the crypt, just the two of us. He asked me if I found him attractive, and I answered truthfully, yes. I reached for him, he reached for me, and we kissed._  

————————————————————————————————————

     Yet again, I wake to find myself on the floor of Ray’s apartment, wrapped in an old duvet. I am touched to find that he has covered me sometime during the night, even though he knows I don’t really need a blanket. His apartment is, like most of Chicago, almost always too warm for my Arctic-adapted metabolism.

     Ray is asleep on the couch. In repose, his face is angelic. His long eyelashes dust his cheeks, and his hair tangles in a wild thatch on his head. He’s lying on his stomach, his right arm draped over the side, his hand resting on the floor next to mine. I let my gaze wander down his finely toned arm to his bracelet-encircled wrist and finally to his long fingers, which rest exactly six centimetres from my open palm. I am sorely tempted to reach up and caress his hand.

     I glance back towards his face, only to find that he is awake, watching me. I’ve been caught, and I can feel my ears turn pink. He graces me with a gentle smile.

     “Morning,” he says.

     “Good morning, Ray.”

     He stretches, climbs over the back of the sofa, and walks towards the bedroom. He strips his shirt off over his head in one swift motion, unconcerned or unaware that I am watching him. The slanting dawn light dances across his skin and casts shadows on the muscles and lines of his back. His beauty arouses me, and I am grateful for the blanket that covers me, keeping my secrets.

     Later, while I take a turn in the washroom, he putters around in the kitchen, rattling dishes and slamming drawers shut with his hip. Over a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and orange juice, he confronts me.

     “You sleep OK?” he asks, blowing on his mug of M&M-flavoured mocha before taking a sip.

     I swallow my bite of eggs. They taste good, savoury and creamy with just a touch of milk, pepper and salt mixed in; a recipe, he’d told me, he learned from Stella.

     “Just fine. And you?”

     “OK. Though you still owe me that Tuck-In-On-The-Floor-I-Hurt-My-Back badge.”

     “Right you are.”

     “Can I ask you a question?”

     “Of course,” I say, and reach for the toast.

     “You ever sleepwalk or anything like that?”

     It is such an odd thing to ask that I pause with the toast halfway to my mouth. “No, not that I’m aware of. Why?”

     “Well, you kind of grabbed my hand in the middle of the night.”

     “I did?” I can feel my cheeks flush.

     “Yeah.” Ray reaches out to demonstrate, squeezes my hand once, then lets go. “Like that. You also, um...” he hesitates, and I wonder if I’ve done something truly embarrassing.

     “I also what?”

     “You kissed my hand,” he says. The words hang in the air.

     “Oh dear.” I am not at all sure how to respond to this revelation. That I kissed Ray’s hand in my sleep is mortifying, but there’s nothing I can do about it. What’s done is done. It seems that in the waking world, my dreams betray me.

     There is a strange look on his face. “I was just checking if you were OK.”

     “I’m fine, Ray. Thank you for asking.”

     “Okay then,” he says.

     “Okay.”

     The drive to work is quieter than usual.

 

————————————————————————————————————

 

     Inspector Thatcher and Constable Turnbull are gone for the day. A mug of bark tea rests, steaming, on the birchwood coaster that sits on the corner of my desk. Normally I look forward to it but today it holds little joy for me.

     I sit in my chair, listless. It’s the same chair I’ve sat in for over three years, next to the same cot I’ve slept in for over a year. I wonder how my life has come to this: how it has become so empty, so desperately lonely, and so small.

     “Is anyone here?” I ask the air, hoping my Dad might show up, and try not to think too hard about the level of insanity that represents. There is no reply.

     “Dief? You awake?” At least talking to the wolf is slightly saner than talking to the walls.

     No luck. Dief is fast asleep on the floor, sprawled on a white Hudson Bay blanket and snoring loudly. He paws the air a few times, licks his jaws and whines once, presumably chasing something through the snow in his wolfish dreams. Or maybe he’s just chasing doughnuts.

     My head aches and my eyes hurt. I have climbed a mountain of paperwork today and it has sucked the life from my bones. I want to slump in my chair, but not only is doing so an insult to the uniform, but the stiff red serge collar cuts into my throat and rubs the skin raw if my posture is anything less than perfect.

     I am ashamed to confess that my duty strangles me sometimes.

     Frustrated, I angrily rip open the collar that constrains my neck. I strip off the uniform and hang it neatly in the closet — which, I note, is currently just a closet rather than a metaphor for my mental state. I change into jeans, blue Henley, blue flannel shirt, leather bomber jacket, and hiking boots. Much better.

     The clock on the wall reads 5:03 p.m. It is still fifty-seven minutes too early for Ray to come get me for our customary evening meal and casework time, and I am impatient.

     I live for these nights now, and the delicious days that Ray and I spend together, working or just enjoying each other’s company. Life is brighter, more raw, more trouble, and more fun when he’s around. The idea of seeing him in fifty seven — no, fifty-six minutes now — cheers me.

     I wonder what he’s doing. I imagine him spiking his hair with something that smells good, then sliding a soft black leather jacket over his shoulders, the one that matches those crisp black trousers and the sturdy boots that make him look a little bit punk. Warmth fills my entire torso at the thought.

      _Whoa boy. Steady, there._ Dreams are not reality.

     Fifty-three minutes to go. Fifty-three minutes of trying very hard not to think about Ray’s hair, his clothes, his body, the way he moves….

     I pull out my journal to pass the time.

 

———————————————————————————————————— 

**Journal, Entry 3**

 

_R.E.: Meg Thatcher_

_Things were awkward between Meg and me today, which is standard operating procedure since the Incident on the train. She has, in very clear terms, insisted that_ _our kiss never be mentioned nor repeated, but the tension remains._

_“I want that report on my desk by 09:00, Constable. Dismissed,” she told me, which by my calculations is her second most frequent thing to say to me. To date, she has given me this order one thousand, one hundred and fifteen times._

_Her most common exchange with me typically questions my competence, which she has done two thousand three hundred fifty nine times._

_The third most frequent thing she says to me (six hundred and thirty seven times to date), usually falls under the category of “desirous advance,” which confuses me and makes me uncomfortable. She doesn’t always do this verbally, however._

_It would be hypocritical of me to deny that I have been guilty of the same, towards her._

      _Today, rather than leave the instant I was dismissed, I stood there six seconds too long. I stared at the soft brown hair on the top of her head, admiring the way the pale grey light of the setting late-autumn sun caught the red highlights._

      _“You’re_ dismissed _, Fraser,” she told me, more insistently, and began gathering her things to leave for the day. As she so often did, Meg had coupled the command with a long, lingering glance. The looks she gives me are a complex blend of desire and exasperation, and they addle my mind._

_“Understood,” I said, embarrassed that I’d overstayed my welcome and flustered by the mixed messages she was sending me. I spun on my heel and headed towards the door._

_Even with my back to her, I could sense her gaze roving over my body. I heard the tiny catch in her breath, smelled her pheromones wafting through the room, and felt the change in air pressure as she crossed her legs under her desk._

_The hair stood up on the back of my neck and I blushed in the face of this sensory onslaught._

_More than once I have caught her looking at my backside, her hungry expression reflected in the mirror that hangs by the door. I don’t think she knows I’ve seen her, and chivalry forbids me from revealing the fact._

_My relationship with her, if you can call it that, reminds me of a bizarre two-headed beast I read about in a Doctor Dolittle book as a child: a “push me-pull you”. Our mutual unresolved physical attraction is a darned if you do, darned if you don’t situation. If we give in to it, things could become very dire, very quickly, risking both our careers, especially hers. If we keep going as we are, my work environment will remain awkward._

      _I also get the sense that while she desires me physically, she doesn’t actually like me very much. She doesn’t know me at all, not in any meaningful way, and if she did know the full truth of who I am she would probably run away screaming._

_We both, I believe, understand that the chemistry between us is always going to be there like a bubbling hot spring, simmering underground_ _, and best given a wide berth if one doesn’t want to get scorched._

_It is yet another thing in my life that I must try, and fail, to put out of my mind._

 

————————————————————————————————————

I pause in my writing to check my watch: twenty-seven minutes until Ray arrives.

     “What is it about me and inaccessible brunettes?” I ask out loud.

     Silence.

     “It’s probably for the best that you’re not listening to me,” I say to the walls, which continue not to answer back. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

     Meanwhile, my tea has gone cold.

  

————————————————————————————————————

**Journal, Entry 4**

  _R.E.: All Women Are Our Sisters_

 _T_ _he life of a Mountie doesn’t leave much time for courting, and eligible women in the_ _far north are few and far between._

_My experience with them leaves something to be desired. Most women are a mystery to me, even the ones I spend significant time around._

       _I’ve already described the unresolvable paradox that is Meg Thatcher._

_Then there are the Elaine Besbririsses and Francesca Vecchios of the world, whom I think of fondly but don’t quite know what to do with them. They are attractive, intelligent, and might as well be from another planet. I don’t blame them for their misguided attentions towards me. I blame myself for not knowing how to handle them or express myself appropriately. It’s not something I am good at._

_A few women (and girls, when I was younger) have piqued my interest, including Innusiq’s sister June, Stephanie Cabot and her horses, and a few others here and there, but for whatever reason, probably my own reticence, things didn’t go anywhere._

_Denny Scarpa a.k.a. Lady Shoes falls into a category of her own; with her I was trying my hand at the bluff. The kiss was just a bonus._

_There are others whom I’d just as soon forget. The wild women. The ones who kindled my madness, used me, and nearly cost me everything. This includes Janet, whom I felt like I knew but ultimately betrayed me._

_And, of course, Her._

_Love and madness seem to be one and the same, for me at least._

      _I think I might need to stay away from women for a while._

————————————————————————————————————

At exactly 6:00 p.m. I am waiting outside in front of the Consulate, Stetson firmly on my head, my breath steaming into the frosty air. The lavender-grey sky is heavy with the metallic scent of snow, and the first few flakes of a late autumn storm swirl around me. The snow speckles the pavement and drifts to the street, where it melts into slushy, oil-slicked puddles. Diefenbaker pads around in circles and snuffles at my feet.

     A few minutes later Ray pulls up in his GTO, giving the engine a couple of revs for style before slamming on the brakes. As he skids to a stop, the front tire splashes muddy water everywhere but somehow it completely misses me.

     “How the hell do you do that?” Ray asks, as I usher Dief into the back seat.

     I slide into the front, set my hat on the dashboard, and close the door. The scents of polish-slicked old vinyl, Dief’s wet fur, and Ray’s mint gum fill my nostrils. It’s an odd mix, but a familiar one, and it comforts me.

     “Do what, Ray?”

     “Stay clean and dry with perfect hair in a snowstorm?”  
  
     “It’s a requirement for acceptance into the RCMP Academy,” I deadpan. It’s the first joke I have made all day. I realize with a start that I have been unable to laugh until now.

     Ray snorts, a half smile curling his lip. “Ask a stupid question….”  
  
     “Why did the moose cross the road?”

     “What?” Ray flips the wipers on and puts the car in gear. One of the wipers squeaks and drags across the windshield, leaving a muddy streak.

     “You told me to ask a stupid question.” I giggle at my own silliness.

      Ray rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Yeah, whatever, wise guy,” he says, smacking his gum. “You wanna get Chinese while we go over the Ramirez case?”  
  
      Diefenbaker barks twice from the back seat.

      I turn to look at my animal companion. “Not a chance, Dief.”  
  
      Dief barks again.

      “No, Diefenbaker, he didn’t ask your opinion,” I chastise. “You don’t get a vote.” I turn toward Ray and say, “Chinese is fine.” Then, as an aside, I explain, “He wants pizza but he’s already had pizza this week and he knows better than to ask.”  
  
      Diefenbaker grumbles his disapproval, surrenders, and lies down on the seat.

      Ray stares at me. “Seriously?”

      “Just watch where you’re going, Ray.”

      “Well?” Ray asks, returning his attention to the street ahead.

     “Well what?”

     “Why did the moose? You know, cross the road?”

     “It was the chicken’s day off,” I chuckle again, and put my hand up to my eyes.

     “Freak,” Ray shakes his head, but there is a touch of fondness in his voice.

     We get takeout from one of our favourite restaurants. Stacks of small white boxes nestle in rustling plastic bags, filling the car with savoury aromas.

     Diefenbaker whines piteously from the back seat.

     “Patience is a virtue,” I say.

     Dief whines.

     We eat dinner at Ray’s apartment, leaning casually over the small kitchen table. Our boots, hats, and jackets are left by the door in comfortable disarray.

     Serious talk about the case is punctuated by the sounds of laughter, the scrape of chopsticks on cardboard, and the clink of glass. Ray offers a toast to nothing in particular and taps his beer bottle to my teacup.

     “Cheers,” he says.

     “Cheers,” I smile, and we drink.

     Dief hunts for scraps before flopping down on Ray’s sock-clad feet. My wolf-friend has always been captivated by blonds and protective of women, and now seems quite enamoured of Ray.

     “Say something in Inuit,” Ray demands, taking a bite of rice.

     “Inuktitut,” I correct him.

     “What?”

     “The language is Inuktitut.”

     “Inuktitut,’ he says, testing the word.

     “What do you want me to say?” I ask, grabbing the last bite of chicken and tossing it to Diefenbaker.

     “I dunno, anything.”

     I pause to think. “Asavakkit.”

     “What’s that mean?” he asks, tossing back the last of his beer.

     “It’s an expression of affection, something you might say to a close friend.” What I don’t tell him is that the phrase has more than one translation, one of which is, “I love you.”

     He furrows his brow in concentration and tries it for himself: “Asavakkit.”

     It sounds wrong, like it’s been twisted through a Chicago subway tunnel and come out the other side worse for wear, but even so it fills me with warmth.

     “Close enough,” I say, and finish my drink. The last sip is bittersweet, tasting of honey mixed with the tannin-heavy specks of tea that always seem to settle in the bottom of the cup.

     Warm light glows from the windows and the snow comes down, blanketing and muffling the sounds of the city. We are warm and dry and content, and most importantly, not alone. Both of us have known profound loneliness and loss, and it feels good to forget it, if only for a little while.

     We clean up the remains of dinner. It’s time for me to leave.

     The sensory onslaught begins.

     “You could stay,” he says. He bows his head, looks up at me through his eyelashes and runs a hand through his hair. “If you want.”

     It’s not the first time I’ve noticed the signals coming from him. He’s been doing this in one way or another since the day we met, but it’s been subtle. He has a buzz of sexual energy about him, with women, mostly, but with the occasional man, too. It’s like a sort of background hum, always there, part of his Ray-ness.

     But lately it has become more insistent.

     Ever since the Henry Allen, it’s as if he knows, or at least suspects, that I might reciprocate if offered the chance. It shouldn’t surprise me that he picked up on it before I noticed it in myself— Ray is a good detective, after all.

     “It’s late,” he says, and his breath hitches in his throat.

     “It’s fine,” I say, and shake my head no.

     “You sure? I’ll take the couch.” He offers me the bed, his bed, saturated with his scent and the indentations of his very being. Dangerous.

     “I need to take Diefenbaker for a walk.” It isn’t a complete lie.

     “It’s snowing,” Ray says, running a hand slowly up and down his thigh. “There’s snow,” he repeats, before remembering whom he’s talking to and how ridiculous that sounds. I can sense his musky pheromones wafting through the air and they intoxicate me, dulling the edges of my rational thought like the snow that softens the world outside this room.

     I blush and crack my jaw. “Another time, maybe.”

     “Well, if you’re sure.” I can see the tension in his body as he folds his arms and shifts his weight, easing the strain of the slight bulge in his trousers.

     I have to escape. Now.

     Before I give in.

     I hate myself for putting us in this situation. My duty to Ray, our partnership, and our friendship, is paramount, regardless of any transient physical attraction either of us might feel. I can’t risk openly revealing my blossoming feelings, or worse, doing something unseemly.

     I pull on my coat and boots, grab my hat, and turn to leave. I can sense Ray’s eyes on my backside; his gaze is so intense it’s almost tangible. And there, out of the corner of my eye, I see it: a lustful glance reflected in the glass of the framed picture that hangs on the wall.

     After the outer door clicks shut behind me, I force myself to run all the way back to the Consulate, while Diefenbaker bounds along beside me. The cold snowflakes sting my skin and my breath curls in plumes in the frozen night air.

  

————————————————————————————————————

**Journal, Entry 5**

 

_R.E.: Ramirez Case_

_I nearly gave in tonight._

 

————————————————————————————————————

 

**Journal, Entry 6**

 

_R.E.: Empty Rooms_

_The new room in my psyche is here to stay, apparently, but it’s going to remain empty._

_Ray has returned to his usual background-hum self. The intensity of his sexual attraction for me has dissipated like campfire smoke on the wind, ever since I rejected his advances thirteen days, twelve hours and fifteen minutes ago. If anything, he seems a bit distant._

      _He has_ _taken to flirting with other people, and even though it’s my fault, even though deep down I want nothing more than for him to be happy, it feels like a knife to the heart._

_Our days are the same, the work is the same: we chase criminals and catch most of them, we hang out, and we’ve even saved a few lives. But I miss him. Even though I see him nearly every day, something has died a little, between us. When he calls me on the phone his voice has gone from a dark and rusty burr to a lighter, more clipped tone, and it hurts._

_I have no right to jealousy. Ray has tempered his feelings and attentions towards me, and rightfully so, but it pains me to admit that I want them back._

————————————————————————————————————

**Journal, Entry 7**

 

  _R.E.: Homesick_

_Chicago has lost its novelty. Being an urban explorer is not fun anymore. The towering skyscrapers are no replacement for mountains, and the seething streets, though they flow like rivers, are noisy with the stink of humanity and all its wretchedness. It has all become too much. There is city dust on my boots and I spend an hour each night trying to clean it off._

_I miss the wilderness. Wilderness helps me feel small. Without it, I become too big._ _When I am too big, trivial problems blossom into great clouds like steam on a winter lake, blinding me._

_I grow weary of my own inner chorus of petty complaints: the itchiness of my serge, the bewildering absence of pemmican in a city of seven million souls; the way my colleagues dismiss me with “He’s Canadian” and nod knowingly, as though I weren’t standing there with my hands behind my back out of respect, pretending not to hear them._

      _It shouldn’t bother me but it does._

_I am not one of them. I don’t belong here (if I ever truly belonged anywhere)._

_Only in the wild, empty places do I know that I am no more important than a single pine needle, but no less significant, either. In smallness, I become whole._

_Wildness is my church, my heaven, my purgatory, my home, and I miss it._

_Even more than I miss Ray._

  

———————————————————————————————————— 

Another week goes by, and we’ve hit a snag in the Ramirez case. One of the suspects has a seemingly airtight alibi (he allegedly spent the night of the murder with a lady of the evening and therefore could not have committed the crime), but something about it doesn’t sit right with me. The logic is there, but Ray’s instincts are telling him that the woman is lying, covering for the suspect. I hope we find the truth soon. We’re going to retrace the victim’s steps again tonight, in case we missed something.

     I’m waiting for Ray to pick me up and I have some time before he arrives. The journal sits open on my desk. I turn tonight’s mug of bark tea so the RCMP logo faces me and I trace its gilded outline with a fingertip, trying to impress its meaning into my flesh. Duty. Honor. Sacrifice – all in the name of maintaining the Right.

     I take a tentative sip, but the tea is too hot. It scorches the tender skin of my upper lip, causing a sharp sting across my mouth.

     I jerk the cup away and tea splashes onto the back of my hand, burning me. I hiss in pain, set the mug down, and suck at the reddening mark. The shape of the burn reminds me of the small trickle of blood in the corner of Ray’s mouth when I punched him. It seems somehow appropriate. Karma.

     I deny myself the little jar of sea cucumber burn salve I keep in my Sam Browne. Better to leave the mark, feel the pain.

     My very own scarlet letter.

     “You’re getting maudlin in your old age, Son.”

     I nearly jump out of the chair, startled to find the ghost of my father leaning over my shoulder and talking directly into my ear.

     “That’s private!” I slap my palm down over the open journal page and glare at him.

     He gives a quick nod. “You need to get out more.”

     “Thank you for the ever helpful advice. Now please go away.”

     “Maybe let a few of those women who are always after you into your pants. Or men. Whatever. I’m not judging you.”

     I pinch the bridge of my nose and screw my eyes shut tight, my cheeks blushing furiously. Maybe if I pretend I can’t hear him talking, the old man will go haunt someone else.

     “I heard that,” my father scolds. “It’s not easy being dead, you know. Show a little respect.”

     “You’re reading my thoughts now?”

     “I’m in your head, Son. What else do you expect me to do?”

     “I don’t know, go ice fishing or something?” I wave a hand in the direction of the open closet door. “As long as it doesn’t involve reading my journal.”

     “You read mine.”

    “That’s different. You’re dead.”

    “True enough.” He gives a little huff. “Still, I know when I’m not wanted. Try to help a man….” He turns and disappears into the closet.

     Fifteen minutes later, he’s back, holding a string of imaginary fish that drip imaginary water onto the floor.

    “Now what?” I can’t mask the annoyance in my voice.

     “Ask yourself what’s keeping you here, Son.”

     “I don’t know, Dad. I really don’t know.”

 

 ———————————————————————————————————— 

 **Journal, Entry 8**

_R.E.: Stanley Raymond Kowalski_

_My father asked why I am still here. The answer, of course, is Ray._

_I know now, and perhaps have long sensed at some subconscious level, that I love him. Need him. Want him. Yes, in that way. Il est celui pour moi._

      _I yearn to hold him, to breathe in the clean scent of his tawny hair, to feel the warmth of his skin and the press of his body, to feel his mouth open, melting, and wet against mine._

_This sin is as shameful to admit as it is impossible to consider ever consummating. It’s a flame that burns so hot at times it threatens to consume me. I’m deeply abashed at my wantonness, torn between what is right and what I wish for, which aren’t the same things at all._

      _I’ve been pretending that by holding back I am protecting our partnership, but there’s more to it than that. I am protecting him from me, from my madness. I realize, too late, that I have become obsessed. My thoughts, my reveries, my prayers — the last as I fall asleep and the first I have upon awakening — are of him, for him, only him. This is a treacherous cliff edge upon which to stand._

      _When I allow myself to catch fire, to fall in love, it is not just me who turns to ashes; innocents also burn. I do not trust myself to stay sane when it comes to passion — and I will not do that to him. I care for him too much._

_What my heart wants doesn’t matter. Hearts betray. Love lies. Lust is a trickster Raven that will rip through your spine and leave you, bloodied and dying, on the pavement._

       _Ray knows me better than I know myself_ _. For reasons I cannot fathom, he accepts me as I am, faults and all._

_But more than that, I know him, too, even when he forgets. He shines like the sun, my Ray, and he needs me to reflect his light back to him when doubts overtake him. He needs me to remind him that he is attractive and worthy of friendship, loyalty, and admiration. He needs me to show him that he doesn’t kill without reason. And that despite his protestations to the contrary, he willingly, and often, puts his life on the line for others, because his heart is good._

      _He needs me to be steadfast and sane. I owe him this much, because that’s what partners do. An unhinged friend is no friend at all._

_QED, I would rather bear the_ _heartache of unrequited love than confess, lose my mind, and in the process, lose everything. I’d rather feel pain than feel nothing._

_And so I remain, as steadfast and sane as I can be. For him. For as long as he will have me._

 

————————————————————————————————————

  

We are back at Ray’s place sans Diefenbaker, who is keeping Turnbull company at the Consulate. It’s a celebration, of sorts, in honor of closing the Ramirez murder case. Ray’s instincts were correct, as they often are. When confronted with the additional evidence we found, the escort admitted she had lied. With her revised statement we were finally able to build a solid case against the two suspects.

     We finish cleaning up the remains of dinner — an extra large pepperoni and pineapple pizza, a pop for Ray, a glass of milk for me, and a salad that I insisted Ray share with me — when a call comes from the State’s Attorney’s office.

     We listen on Ray’s phone, leaning our heads together. His hair tickles my ear.

     When we hear the news that two truly awful humans will likely remain behind bars for life, we cheer and jump into each other’s arms in a tight congratulatory hug.

     I count the seconds: one, two, three: the average length of a standard platonic embrace.

     Four, five, six, seven: the length of a hug one gives a close friend. Just right. I start to pull back but Ray holds on.

     I feel the stirrings of a sensory barrage coming from him, and the relief that washes over me is palpable. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it, missed him, until now.

     Fifteen seconds: the length of a serious goodbye. I’m starting to wonder what’s going on, when Ray starts swaying, moving us to the Sinatra music that’s playing softly on the stereo.

     Twenty seconds: the time it takes for oxytocin, the bonding hormone, to begin coursing through our veins. Warmth and a feeling of calm flows through me as he slides one arm around my waist and holds the other arm out in a ballroom dance pose. When his hand clasps mine a spark of electricity snaps between us. He flashes me a beautiful a smile.

    I start to protest.

    “Shush,” he quiets me, and leads us in a slow, simple box step. He doesn’t speak, but guides me with his touch, his body, his hands, his eyes.

     I am unused to moving this way, in reverse, and I’m concentrating so hard on not stepping on his feet that I stumble.

     “Don’t think,” he says.

     “Bad idea.”

     “Just go with it,” he whispers, “I’ve got you.” His voice is low and soft. The sound sends butterflies to my stomach.

     I close my eyes, and yield to the dance.

 

———————————————————————————————————— 

**Journal, Entry 9**

 

_R.E.: Dancing_

_We danced tonight. To my shame, I let it happen._

_It started with an embrace: lingering, intoxicating, until it became something more._

_He told me to stop thinking, which is rarely a good idea, but in my weakness I surrendered. I allowed myself to get lost in his joy, the joy he feels in the movement of his own body when it’s enthralled to music._

_As we danced I became drunk on him. We glided, flexed, and turned, our bodies touching, pressed together at the chest and groin and thigh, taut with the promise of ecstasy. His stubbled cheek grazed mine; his breath and lips brushed my ear._

_I ached to kiss him, to claim him for my own. Waves of desire rolled off of him towards me along with the memory of icy water closing over us, a riptide that threatened to carry us both out to sea where we would surely drown._

      _When the song ended he looked at me expectantly, his gaze flicking towards my mouth, his pupils wide in the dim light of the living room._

_“I should go,’ I told him._

_“Don’t.” He reached for my cheek and stroked his thumb across it._

      _I didn’t say anything. I left him there, alone in his apartment. He looked hurt and confused, but in my heart I know I did the right thing._

_He will get over my leaving, but he would never forgive me had I stayed._

————————————————————————————————————

 

Back at the Consulate, I am brooding. I hear noises from the closet so I open the door and wander in.

     “You’re an idiot, Son,” my father says the instant I enter. He’s sitting in the chair by the woodstove, whittling with a long pocket knife, leaving ethereal wood chips scattered on the rug.

     “Thanks a lot, Dad. It’s nice to see you too.”

     “Don’t shoot me, I’m just the messenger.”

     “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, tugging my earlobe.

     “Oh yes, you do. He’s a good man. He could be good for you.”

     “I know he’s a good man. It’s myself I’m worried about.”

     “Quit taking yourself so seriously, Son.”

     “You know, I’ve never understood what it means when people say that, and that includes dead people.”

     “It means the Yank’s right. You,” he points at me with the knife, “need to stop over-thinking things.”

     “When I do that, everything goes to Hell.”

     “Hell’s not so bad. At least I hope it isn’t.”

     “Humph,” I say. “Well, that’s not something I’m qualified to judge. At least not yet.”

     “So, you made a few mistakes, big deal,” he says, and starts whittling again. “A couple of real doozies, if you ask me, but that’s not important. What is important is whether or not you’ve learned your lesson.”

     “I don’t know what you mean.”

     “Shut up and dance, Benton.”

 

————————————————————————————————————

 Ray and I nearly die two nights later.

     We’re tied up together execution style, kneeling on the ground, about to have our brains splattered on the pavement by a gang of mean-looking thugs with their fingers on the triggers of their Glocks. Only by the grace of Diefenbaker, my boot knife, and another gang of thugs with perfect timing and a bone to pick with our would-be murderers do we manage to escape.

     The three of us flee, Ray, the wolf, and I, running full pelt away from the deserted warehouse and down the alleyway into the dark. We don’t stop until we reach the relative safety of a passing bus, which we leap onto as it trundles along its nightly route.

     The driver objects to Dief’s presence until Ray flashes his badge and yells, “Police dog! Official business.” The driver shrugs and closes the door behind us. I keep my mouth shut. This time, I’m grateful to Ray for his brashness and his bald-faced ability to lie when necessary.

     There is no one else on board, except for a sleeping shift worker and the tired bus driver, who is distracted by the music thumping through his thick headphones. We collapse into the last seat together, gasping and panting and grateful to be alive. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead while Dief prowls around under the seats in front of us.

     “Oh God, oh God, that was too close,” Ray says. He is shaking all over from the adrenaline and breathing heavily, clutching his stomach. “Too close.”

     “It was,” I agree. “We were very fortunate to escape.”

     Suddenly he gets this look on his face, the one that says, “What the heck, I don’t give a darn,” and sets his jaw.

     He leans over, cups my face in his trembling hands, and kisses me on the mouth. It’s rough and quick (about one point three seconds) and sends a shockwave right through me.

     Then he leans against the window like it was nothing, tilts his head back, puts his feet up on the seat in front of us and closes his eyes.

     I am too stunned to respond.

     We ride back to the station that same night to check in. We send a team to clean up the mess we’ve left behind, and fetch Ray’s car. Neither of us mentions the kiss.

     “Want to crash at my place?” he asks me later, around 3 a.m.

     It takes every ounce of resistance to tell him I have morning meetings at the Consulate. He drives us there, but Diefenbaker keeps licking Ray’s face and I have to call my wolf off several times.

     Instead of dropping me off like he usually does, Ray parks improperly and walks me and Dief to the door.

     “I’m glad you didn’t die tonight,” he says.

     “Likewise.”

     “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He puts a hand on my shoulder.

     “Nor I, you,” I say, and squeeze his arm back.

     We hug each other tightly a full fifteen seconds. He moves to give me a peck on the cheek, when an irresistible urge to kiss him surges through me. I turn my head and catch his lips in mine. He gasps in surprise, and pulls back.

     He looks at me, wide eyed, and his mouth curves into a little smile as if to say, “Got you.”

     And he has got me. I’m hooked like a trout on a Hula Popper.

     I think he might kiss me back, but instead, he just pats my cheek and says, “Night, partner.”

     He leaves me there, slightly dazed, with the taste of his mouth still lingering on my tongue.

     There is a spring in his step as he waltzes down the path and back to his car. I am gratified to see him so happy. Even so, I regret my actions. Not because I didn’t want to kiss him — heaven knows it’s nearly all I can think about when I’m with Ray these days. It’s distracting.

     I wish I had stopped myself because I don’t know what to do now.

 ———————————————————————————————————— 

**Journal, Entry 10**

 

_R.E.: The Bus_

_It happened so fast that I didn’t see it coming._

_There’s nothing about this in the Administration Manual (I checked three times just to be certain). I’m lost. I’ve got no sextant, no compass, no map, and I’m fresh out of beef jerky._

_Oh, dear._

————————————————————————————————————

**Journal, Entry 11**

_R.E.: Me_

_I seem to have left out an important element of my research, namely myself. At the risk of sounding narcissistic I will try to provide some data._

_Do you know what it’s like to be me?_

      _I’ll tell you. It’s like having twenty-five file folders open on my desk at once and all of them are important. Every sound. Every sight. Every scent, taste, and touch, in addition to Inuit stories and classical music, and the cases and projects I’m working on._

_There’s an entire file dedicated to free-floating anxiety._

      _I also am currently aware of: the US-Canadian exchange rate to the third decimal, memories (mostly bad ones), and did I mention How To Tie A Bowline Knot?_

_Eleven of the open files in my head currently involve Ray Kowalski._ _There is one for his hair, one for his body, one for the way he dresses, one for his personality, two for what is happening to our relationship, one for his family, two for the kisses we exchanged and two more for the things I would like to do with him but haven’t and probably never will, marked “Top Secret”._

      _Throw in random facts in a multitude of languages, other people’s feelings coming at me from every direction, all of it whirling around, vying for attention._

_Imagine such a scenario, and you have some idea of the internal chaos that seethes within my brain from minute to minute._

      _Perhaps it is why I appreciate the external constraints of my uniform and of my personal code, because it keeps the chaos under control, at least some of the time. It is definitely why I prefer the wild places, the places that can kill me with a whisper, a chasm, or an avalanche, because those places fill me with an existential emptiness that I crave._

      _Except._

 _Except when my mind is quiet and everything aligns like light waves in phase. And then, I become something else: something dangerous, single minded, and unstoppable. Whomever or whatever is the target of my obsession had better watch out because Hell or Deliverance is coming, and it is coming in the form of Me. I will never give up, never give in, never back off — even if it kills me. Or someone else, because of my own wretched hubris. The trail. The track. The murderer. The polluter. The…_  

————————————————————————————————————

My hand trembles, and I stop writing. I cannot write the words, “the lover.” No. I am ashamed again, of my lie. The Big Lie I tell myself and everyone else — the one where I am a Mountie and can handle anything. Because I can’t.

     Criminals and life-threatening situations? I eat those for breakfast. But matters of the heart, of passion? Ha. Or as my dear friend Ray Vecchio might say, “Forget about it.”

     It seems like everyone in Chicago and Canada knows The Lie, but no one knows The Lie better than I do.

     The old bullet wound in my back still aches, reminding me that some injuries are so deep, they never truly heal.

     Diefenbaker grumbles in his sleep and rolls over, as if sensing my pain.

     I have to clench my jaw against the memories. I need to button those thoughts down tightly, seal them up, lock them in a box and send them to the bottom of Lake Superior.

     Better yet, I need to think of something else, anything else, such as Ray intimidating suspects. That really shouldn’t arouse me but it does. I enjoy the fire in him. My mind drifts, and I remember the look on his face when I used a posthypnotic suggestion to make him behave like a decent human being.

     I smile at the memories. The malevolent traumas are locked away again, safe in their memory-prison. For now.

     Curious, that — how thoughts of Ray Kowalski can banish the darkness so quickly.

———————————————————————————————————— 

**Journal, Entry 12**

_R.E.: Raymond Vecchio_

_I often wonder how Ray Prime is doing, somewhere out in the Nevada desert._

_I’ve grown to think of him as the big brother I never had, and pray fervently that he is safe. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss him terribly. True friendship is a rare and precious gift, and I will always treasure the time when we were partners._

_Little things remind me of him, and sometimes my imaginings take a bizarre turn. Yesterday I spied a new potted succulent on Inspector Thatcher’s credenza, and suddenly found myself picturing Ray eating caviar out of a hollowed-out cactus on the Mafia’s dime. I couldn’t help myself — I smiled at the thought, much to the Inspector’s chagrin. She was busy lecturing me on my incompetence yet again (that makes two thousand, three hundred, seventy two and one-half times) and didn’t find anything funny about the situation._

_I wonder, do they eat caviar out of cacti? And if so, which species? Does beluga go better with Ferocactus (barrel cactus) or Opuntia (prickly pear)? I shall have to look that up next time I am at the library. Who knows when such trivia might prove useful?_

————————————————————————————————————

  **Journal, Entry 13**

_R.E.: Epiphanies_

_We were at Ray’s place again. I’ve lost count how many times we’ve been there, and those data don’t really matter anymore._

_I badly needed a shower after getting dragged through the mud while hanging on to the back bumper of a stolen armoured car, and Ray needed one after chasing me a mile on foot through the muck. We were both in grim shape._

_Of course he invited me over._

_I just didn’t expect what happened next, because I am an idiot._

————————————————————————————————————

 

I take Dief into the living room and leave him there with bowls of food and water, some toys and a blanket. He doesn’t even eat — he just circles twice and flops down, as exhausted as we are after the muddy chase. I’ll have to give him a bath in the morning, but that can wait. Best to leave sleeping wolves lie.

     I let Ray shower first, then I take a turn, lingering under the spray of hot water, letting it sluice over my tired and battered body.

     When I come out wrapped only in a towel, he’s sitting on the bed, wearing black sweatpants and no shirt, reading a copy of _Ringworld_. I take the opportunity to admire his body, my eyes lingering on his Champion tattoo.

     He tosses the magazine aside and looks up at me in shock.

     “Jesus, Fraser.”

     “Sorry,” I say, thinking he is upset with me for staring at him.

     “You’re a mess. Come here,” he gestures to the bed, “Where I can see you.”

     I sit down next to him, near the lamp that rests on the nightstand. The dream-catcher I made for him hangs from a nail on the wall over the headboard, its eagle feather dusky in the yellow light.

    “Does it hurt?” He reaches up to poke a large bruise on my shoulder, and I hiss in pain.

     To my surprise, he leans over, whispers, “Sorry,” and kisses it, very gently. My pulse rate shoots from 60 to 77 bpm.

     “What about this?” he points to another bruise on my back.

     “Yes,” I say, but it comes out more like a croak.

     He kisses the spot, and warmth floods my body. 88 bpm.

     “Anywhere else?” he asks, arching an eyebrow.

     I swallow. 103 bpm.

     “How about —” he touches a fingertip to my lips, and suddenly I can’t breathe.

     Taking my silence as acquiescence, which I suppose it is, he leans in, cups a hand around the back of my neck, and kisses me. His lips are soft and warm and filled with longing. I cannot resist. I kiss him back, and feel him smiling into my mouth.

     He pulls away and studies me, his blue eyes sparkling. He leans in to kiss me again.

     “No,” I say, though every cell in my body is screaming “yes”.

     He looks at me, nonplussed.

     “We can’t do this.” I try to make my voice sound serious, yet kind. I don’t want to hurt him but this cannot happen. It’s too risky.

     “Why not?” he asks, tracing a line across my lips.

     “We just can’t.”

     He lowers his hand and frowns.

     “We just can’t. What kind of non-reason is that?” He asks.

     “You’ll get hurt, or worse.”

     Ray looks affronted. “For Chrissake, Fraser. Get over yourself.”

     “What do you mean?” I ask, stung.

     “I mean nobody, and that includes you,” he points a finger at me, “tells me what to feel. I decide. Me. If I want to take a risk, that’s my business.”

     He doesn’t understand how dangerous this is, how dangerous I can be. “I’m just trying to protect you,” I say, pleading with him.

     “From what? A broken heart? Been there, done that.”

     “No.” I shake my head.

     “Then what?”

     “I’m trying to protect you from me,” I say, pointing to myself with both hands. “And from the effects of physical attraction that cause people to lose their minds and make rash decisions.”

     “Speak for yourself.”

     The words feel like a gut punch. My face turns red but I keep going. “I am speaking for myself.”

     “But you’re not the only one that gets a say here,” he argues.

     “You don’t understand.” I really need him to hear me, to listen.

     “Oh, I understand all right. You think this is just about sex.”

     “No!” I say, too loudly, and instantly regret it. “It’s worse than that.”

     Ray is really getting angry now and I’m feeling overexposed sitting here in just a towel. I grab a pillow and clutch it to my chest defensively.

     “Worse? What, the hell, Fraser, afraid you might fall in love with me?”

     “No.”

     Ray looks genuinely hurt. “Figures. Like that was ever gonna happen.”

     “Ray...” I didn’t want to say it. I vowed I would not say it. But the look on his face breaks my heart and I can’t stand it anymore. “I’m not afraid of that because I’m already in love with you.”

     “What?” His jaw drops.

     I look down, abashed. “Yes.”

     “Then why can’t we…?”

     “We can’t, because I know what happens next. I get obsessed. I lose my mind. People die. I won’t let that happen to you.” I clutch the pillow tighter.

     “You really are a freak.”

     “What’s wrong with wanting to protect the people I care about?” I ask, incredulous.

     “Nothing,” Ray says. “But can’t you see? I won’t let that happen.”

     “How do you plan to do that?” I challenge him. “You can’t possibly know what it’s like.”

     “Ha!” Ray snorts. “Fraser, you don’t have a corner on obsession. Me, I know obsession.” He points to himself. “I chased a guy my whole life and ended up lying in a grave.”

     “But this is different,” I argue.

     “One word: Stella.”

     “But this is about me, Ray….”

     “You always think it’s about you, Fraser.”

     “Ray, listen to me. I don’t trust myself. And you shouldn’t either.”

     “Then trust _me_.” He grabs my hand and holds it tightly.

     “What are you saying?” I demand.

     “Just listen, will you? I’m saying that if you start to go nuts, I will stop you. That’s what partners do.”

  _That’s what partners do._

     I stare at him, thunderstruck.

     He continues, “You get it? I. Will. Stop. You.” He pokes my forehead. “Even if I have to kick you in the head.”

     The possibility that Ray — that anyone — could hold back my madness had never occurred to me before. I’ve spent my whole life trying to keep everyone else safe, to save the world, to maintain the right… and thinking I had do it all on my own.

     I never imagined that someone could save me. Or would even want to.

     My entire worldview implodes and rearranges itself into something new and terrible and wonderful, filled with possibility. A tidal wave of mixed feelings crashes over me and I struggle to breathe.

     “Oh my God,” I say, more to myself than to him. “I am an idiot.”

     He nods at me and smiles a half-smile. “Now you’re getting it.”

     Why had I ever doubted him? Why had I questioned his ability to hold it together — to hold us, as a duet, together? Ray had learned from his past with Ellory, with Stella, and even with me. He had become something new. Better. Stronger. Strong enough for both of us. Ray is unselfish, protective, loving, sane...and he is nothing, absolutely nothing, like Victoria.

     “I am so sorry,” I cast my eyes down in shame.

     “It’s okay,” he says sagely, “You’re not used to letting anyone else lead.” He reaches for me, takes the pillow and lays it on the bed, and wraps his arms loosely around my neck. “What do you need right now?” he asks, running his fingers through my still-damp hair, soothing and petting me. “Tell me. Anything.”

     “I need...” I tangle my fingers together in a confused knot. “I don’t know how to do this.” _I don’t know how to do this without falling apart_ , I think but do not say.

     “Ben...” his voice is filled with compassion. He leans in and kisses the top of my head.

     “You called me Ben,” I say, but I still can’t look at him.

     “Yeah I did. I’m here.” He rests his forehead against mine and rubs a hand across my back with feather-light strokes, being careful not to hurt me. “I’ll catch you,” he says.

     “But what if…” Hot tears prick the corners of my eyes.

     “I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

     I need to believe him. I need to believe so badly it hurts.

     “It’s your turn to trust me,” he says, and kisses my closed eyelids, one at a time. He’s so gentle. No one has ever been this tender with me and I’m overwhelmed.

     “Why should I?” I ask. The question is not rhetorical, nor is it personal. I just have serious trust issues.

     “Because I know you, Ben.” He kisses my cheek and nuzzles the soft spot under my earlobe. “And I love you.”

     My heart soars at his words and my skin tingles, but still, foolishly, I doubt him. I pull back to search his face. “You do?”

     “Yeah. You think I do this with just anybody?”

     “Well, yes, Ray, your sexual exploits are legendary.”

     “Jerk.” He smacks me lightly on the arm, avoiding the bruise.

     “Sorry. That was inappropriate. I don’t know why I said that.”

     “I do,” he says. “Self defense.”

     He rests a hand on my cheek, lightly stroking his thumb across my five o’clock shadow.

     “You’re right, of course,” I say. Ray is usually right. I need to remember that.

     “Uh huh,” he says. He leans forward and I can feel his breath on my trembling lips.

     I'm genuinely _frightened._ Bears, murderers, ice crevasses -- they are nothing compared to this _._

     “I know,” he says, reading my mind, “I’ve got you.” And then he touches his mouth to mine: once, twice, three times, each time more searching and insistent than the last.

     The next kiss is open-mouthed and slick-tongued, and I feel like I’m falling. He explores my mouth, claims my lips. When he grazes them with his teeth I let out an involuntary gasp and the sensation of pleasure mixed with pain ignites a fire in my abdomen, bringing me to full arousal in a matter of seconds.

    He buries his fingers in my hair, cups his hand around the back of my neck and slowly pushes me backwards until I’m lying on the bed. He levers one leg between my thighs and hovers over me, supporting his weight on his arms and searching my face. Waiting.

     He cocks an eyebrow, silently asking permission to continue.

     Ray is being so careful, with my injuries, with my heart. With — whatever this is. I answer the unspoken question by wrapping my arms around him and pulling him down so he can feel me, hard and hot against his leg through the towel. The skin of his back is warm and soft and I can feel the muscles rippling under my hands. He reacts by rocking against my thigh, showing me that he’s as aroused as I am.

     He kisses me deeply, then moves his mouth to my jaw. He lightly tongues my ear before sliding his mouth downward to nip at my neck. He shifts his weight to one side, freeing his hand to roam across my collarbone, my chest, and down my stomach, sending shivers through me with each caress. He ducks his head to curl his tongue around each nipple, making me hiss and arch. Then one by one, he gently kisses each of my scars.

     So many scars. So many traumatic memories.

     I tense up again. He sees the anxiety on my face and rescues me again without words, with a deep, loving kiss on the mouth. He blots everything out, erasing the past with his hot wet tongue.

     When his fingertips reach the towel at my waist he pauses, tracing the line between it and my skin. He raises his eyebrows, again asking permission. He really is here, with me, looking out for me, every step of the way.

     I’ve been so blind.

     In answer I grasp his hand in mine and slide it under the towel. He unwraps it from my waist and I close my eyes. A second later I feel him move and I open my eyes again; he’s slipped off his sweatpants and is naked now and fully erect, gazing at me hungrily.

     I cannot help but stare back. He’s gorgeous, all of him. He shoves my thighs farther apart so both his legs are between mine. He effectively turns off all stray thoughts in my head when he slides the tip of his cock, which is red and leaking and soft as silk, against my hip. I let out a moan through clenched teeth.

     He does it again, and again, an intense look of pleasure on his face.

     My own arousal is starting to ache, so I arch my back, seeking friction.

     Sensing my need, he reaches for me, his palm barely resting against the tip. It’s been a long time since anyone touched me that way and suddenly my entire being is filled with desire. I buck into his hand and he closes his fist around me.

     He pumps a few times and strokes his thumb over the head, spreading my own slickness and sending little jolts of electricity up and down my spine. I start to thrust into his fist but he lets go, and I moan in protest until he covers my mouth with his own again.

     He reaches for my hand and pulls it down, placing it on my own erection.

     “Show me.” He growls. “Show me what you need.” His hand slips under my own, resting lightly, inviting me to guide him.

     I swallow. I’m feeling dizzy with a combination of intense arousal and fear. He’s asking me to come undone with him, to reveal my deepest self, and I’m not sure I can do it. What if I lose myself again and go mad?

     Again he reads me like an open book.

     “It’s all right,” he whispers, “I’ve got you.”

     Heat floods through me and I can resist no longer. I stroke his hand down, down, and again, clenching his fingers to the perfect tightness, and again, moving in a staccato rhythm. He follows my lead, faster now, harder, building to a crescendo. I feel the heat of his rock-hard erection stabbing against my hip, his own tension building.

     “Ray,” I pant, straining from the effort of the dance, frustratingly close but not quite there.

     “Don’t think,” he reminds me, and I let my logical brain shut down.

     My body knows what to do now, and I grab his hand hard, stilling it. I thrust once, twice, thrice into his fist. The muscles in my stomach tense and suddenly I’m there, falling, exploding. My body convulses in climax, sending my release into our hands and over my stomach.

     And all the time Ray is there, watching me, holding me, keeping me safe and sane.

     He’s also sending out an electrical storm of sensory information, which is coming at me from every direction. He needs me. Desperately. Now.

     I reach for his cock, sliding the wetness around and over him. He moans, pulls my hand away and moves to lie on top of me, straddling my legs. He presses hard against the hollow of my hip and starts thrusting, focused and urgent, letting out little groans of pleasure with each push. I grab his backside and move with him.

     He closes his eyes, taking what he needs. He shoves against me, over and over, breathing hard, sweat trickling down his chest. His movements become erratic and I know he’s close, so I pull him against me and grind my hips against him. “Asavakkit, asavakkit, I love you, I love you,” I breathe into his ear. He cries out as he comes, shuddering and collapsing on top of me, breathless and shaking.

     I wrap my arms around his shoulders and hold him close, until his pulse and breathing slow. He hums contentedly against my neck, sending vibrations right through my bones, right to my heart.

     “That tickles,” I say, so he hums into my neck again. Cheeky.

      “Still sane?” he asks sleepily and slides off me, tucking his head into my shoulder.

     I do an internal scan. All I feel is bliss. Contentment. Safety. There’s no guilt, no questioning my duty, no desire to become a criminal, nothing.

     “Apparently,” I say, and I hope I’m right.

     “‘S’ good,” he mumbles, “else I’d have to pop you and I feel too good for that right now.”

     “I’m relieved, Ray,” I say, and drift, lulled by his breathing, half-sleeping and half drugged in the afterglow.

     Later, I take my second shower of the day and check on Dief, who is still fast asleep, then crawl back in bed beside Ray. We spend the night wrapped in each other’s arms.

     In the darkness just before dawn he takes me slowly, lingering, spirit touching flesh, flesh enraptured by spirit, and it is beautiful.

————————————————————————————————————

**Journal, Entry 14**

_RE: Falling_

_I dreamed of Ray for the forty-fifth time._

_We were in his apartment, just the two of us. He reached for me, I reached for him, and we kissed._

_Then I fell, and he caught me._

  

————————————————————————————————————

 

I awake to find him beside me in bed, sleeping peacefully. His hand is next to mine, and I am tempted to caress it, so I do. This rouses him. He opens his eyes, and graces me with a gentle smile.

     “Morning,” he says.

     “Good morning, Ray.”

     “You sleep OK?” he asks.

     “Just fine,” I smile at him. “And you?”

     “Are you sure you never sleepwalk or anything like that?”

     I am taken aback. “You asked me that once before. What did I do this time?”

     “You fucked my brains out last night.” He smirks.

     I blush beet red and burst out laughing. “I wasn’t asleep when we did that.”

     “Just checking.”

     He stretches out languidly on the bed, letting the covers fall from his body, exposing himself to my gaze. He catches me watching him, and smiles again.

     “Thank you kindly,” I say.

     “For what?”

     “For last night.”

     “Oh my God, Fraser,” he laughs. “You don’t have to thank me. You Canadians don’t know when to quit with the polite.”

     “I mean it,” I say, “Thank you....” I’m not sure what to say. Thank you for catching me? For forgiving me? For loving me? For keeping me safe? The words aren’t coming but somehow, he knows. He knows.

     He locks eyes with me and says, simply, “That’s what partners do.” Then he kisses me softly, and it’s the best thing in the world.

 

———————————————————————————————————— 

**Journal, Entry 15**

  

_Ray_

_Je t’aime_

_Raymond_

_Stanley Raymond Kowalski_

Я тебя люблю

_Asavakkit_

_RAY_

————————————————————————————————————

**Journal, Entry 16**

 

_R.E.: A Room of One’s Own_

_There’s a new room in the house of my psyche, and it’s slowly being furnished with exquisite memories._

_Viktor Frankl wrote that, “The salvation of man is through love and in love.” I believed, mistakenly, that by giving myself over completely to love and to passion I would condemn myself and my lover to damnation. Instead, I have been saved._

      _My greatest joy is losing my mind, losing our minds, together, through love. When he kisses me, currents of liquid fire course through me, burning away my sins and leaving me as pure and fragile as a frostflower._

_I am still homesick, but not quite as much._

_Because wherever Ray, my Ray, is, that is home._

_Case. Closed._

————————————————— 

The End


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